Code Name Porcelain
by MDemagogue
Summary: The CIA is concerned that their prized asset, Agent Kurt Hummel, has been missing for two weeks.  Things are complicated by the appearance of a video that connects Hummel to a CIA target who unexpectedly ends up dead.   Eventually Puck/Kurt
1. Sue's Corner

3

A/N: This is a slight homage to various spy thrillers/films and the like, interlocked with various characters from Glee, which I don't own. This work will start in medias res, it's a style that I like to read, so I figured I'd try writing in it. Puck/Kurt eventually, possible Kurt/Blaine. Rated M. The views expressed in this work of fiction are those of the characters, not necessarily those of the author.

Code Name Porcelain

Chapter 1: Sue's Corner

SuePOV

One of my heroes, Otto von Bismarck, the Iron Chancellor of Germany, once said that "God protects fools, drunkards, and the United States of America." Since the United States is largely a nation of fools and drunkards, I'd say that Otto was being redundant on the matter. Frankly, I'd also say that he was probably wrong on that account. I'd attribute the relative safety of the United States to the ability of ruthless people, like myself, under minimal, and often lax supervision to do things that needed to be done.

My days as a field agent were done. Had been for awhile. One of the problems with aging is that your reaction time slows, you can't run without sleep as well as you used to, and any number of other issues. It wasn't always that way, of course. I got my hands dirty in the field once upon a time. I'm not going to tell you when because I'm not going to date myself like that.

Those days were past however. I was head of the Dalton Desk at the Central Intelligence Agency. The Dalton Desk wasn't actually a desk, it was a group of people who gathered information on the Dalton Organization. Dalton was a multinational criminal organization that did all sorts of sundry things that would have been perfectly ok if they had been done under the auspices of the CIA. At one time, if the unauthorized biographies and tabloid reports on Alan Dalton were to be believed, he was a CIA asset. He probably did all sorts of sundry things that were protected by us, since he had our sanction. Got rich doing what he was doing, as criminals tend to do. Got greedy and corrupt, as people are wont to do.

Alan Dalton turned his back on the agency after the end of the Cold War, when he saw the opportunity for profit by looting the corpse of the USSR, as many entrepreneurial types did. Alan used his money, and his knowledge of agency workings to help facilitate the explosion of organized crime inside Russia, and parts of Eastern Europe. He found the most ruthless elements of the Soviet security apparatus to supervise his empire in the east, and essentially established most of his racket as legal, or at least protected in Russia and some of its former satellite states.

* * *

><p>Supervising his Russian holdings which were concentrated in St. Petersburg and Moscow was David Karofsky. Karofsky was a thug, make no mistake about that. It would be a mistake to say that he was only a thug though. He was also KGB. He was in turns brutal, terrifying, and intelligent. Using the information he gained from Dalton, Karofsky cleaned house in Russia, virtually eliminating our presence there over a few years time. Their partnership prospered with Karofsky providing the manpower and some of the connections that a foreigner like Dalton would need to operate with minimal trouble inside Russia.<p>

We were attempting to rebuild our intelligence network inside Russia when September 11th happened. After that, there wasn't any interest in the doings of a multinational criminal organization that had minimal contact with terrorist groups in the Middle East. Dalton was at least smart enough to realize that the Middle East was important to us, and so he confined his dealings there to selling to bad governments. Weapons deals with the Syrians and the like, but not to Al-Qaeda.

* * *

><p>As a result, the Dalton Desk was a very small group of people. Artie Abrams, who was paralyzed from the waist down because he got caught in a car bombing in Manila while hunting Al-Qaeda operatives in the Philippines. This desk was a bit of a letdown, but it was preferable to being pensioned, at least to him. He devoted himself to the latest technology and it's intelligence applications, which was more useful on our end then it would be in tracking a group like AQ that avoided use of technology out of fear that we were tracking them through it.<p>

Dalton Desk also had Noah Puckerman. Puck, as he preferred to be called, was a bit of an insufferable person, but he got the job done. He was a wetworks kind of person. He blew stuff up, drove fast cars, and gambled. I think he watched too many Bond movies. His role at our desk also included responsibility for what might have been the most brilliant intelligence coup ever designed.

* * *

><p>Code Name Porcelain was one of the most unlikely fronts that the agency had. A fashion designer for Marc Jacobs, he was a fixture at fashion shows around the world. His models were loyal to him, and he had them gather information on our behalf. You'd be surprised how much informal business goes on at fashion soirees like the shows in Milan, Paris, etc. The reason being that fashion knows no occupational boundaries. Gangsters apparently need the latest fashion too. Or at least, their wives, girlfriends, rent boys, mistresses, etc do.<p>

He was MIA. Marc Jacobs website listed him as being on a month long leave of absence, but we hadn't heard anything from him in two weeks. Puck didn't know where he was at, and we didn't have contact with his models so they couldn't tell us anything. We didn't want to blow their cover by snooping around, so we were in the dark.

The phone rang at my desk.

"Sue's corner."

"Sue, Assistant Director Pillsbury on the line. Go to the BBC website now."

"Sure thing Irma."

I pulled up the BBC website. Big headline on the page announced that there was a car bombing in London 45 minutes ago.

"Act of terrorism in London?"

"Did you read the article?"

"No, I glanced at the byline."

"Alan Dalton's dead. More importantly, it looks like one of your assets was involved."

"What?"

"There's a video showing the blast from a CCTV camera stationed above a building across the street. Watch it if you don't believe me."

I clicked the video, and it showed Dalton abruptly storming out of an upscale restaurant in London. He was followed by a young man who was holding Agent Porcelain's hand. An explosion ripped through the plaza. The footage ended there.

"Alma, it looks like my team is going to London."


	2. A Tale of Two Cities

A/N: This chapter takes place about 4 months prior to chapter 1. I was gratified at the number of alerts and favorites that the story got. Feel free to review and let me know what you're thinking.

Code Name Porcelain

Chapter 2: A Tale of Two Cities

KurtPOV

It wasn't bad for a boy out of Lima, Ohio to have made it to Paris, France. Even better, it wasn't bad for a boy out of Lima, Ohio to have made it to Paris for free, and for business. I was being paid to be here. I had completed my undergraduate studies at the New School in design, and 6 months ago, I completed my MFA there as well. While there, I did various internships, and even had a limited role as an assistant costume designer for a couple of off broadway musicals. It paid off with getting my proverbial foot in the door here at Marc Jacobs as a junior designer. Low man on the totem pole to be sure, but plenty of perks.

There would always be a part of me that was attached to Lima though. The bad part of me. The unhappy part of me. Once, awhile ago, ages ago it could seem, there was a 17 year old boy who went to his Senior prom, with a group of friends. He didn't have a date, because he was the only openly gay person at the school, but he had some friends that included him in their plans. He wouldn't get to dance with prince charming, but he'd get the chance to dance with some of his friends, and that was enough for him.

He had plenty of people who hated him for who he was that included him in their plans too. The votes were tallied for Prom King and Queen. Some random person who I can't remember for the life of me won King, and, with a large write in contingent, yours truly won Prom Queen. The principal was a fucking dumbass and decided to read off my name knowing full well that it was a malicious stunt pulled by some fuckers in this cow town of payday lenders, pawn shops and liquor stores.

I resolved to give them their comeuppance and actually be crowned. I strode up to the stage, had my crown placed on my head, and struck a pose. There were some catcalls, which I kind of reveled in for a moment, then the principal announced that the King and I would have our "traditional dance". The King flipped his shit, and decked me.

* * *

><p>He got suspended after my dad threatened to sue. Even that was a grudging concession. It didn't change the fact that our house was routinely vandalized, my dad's garage got harassing phone calls on a regular basis by anonymous cowards. At school, I was thrown in dumpsters, had slushies thrown on me and in my eyes, and got beat up because in a moment of wit, my own personal demons realized that my last name, Hummel, rhymed with pummel. The town was infected with hatred. I don't understand it, and for the life of me I still don't. You would think with the problems that towns like Lima faced over the past 20 years with factories going out of business and the exposure of the utter illusion that was the American Dream that they would worry more about their lives and less about who was gay. I got the fuck out of there and went to New York.<p>

Things were better. In the grown up world, people were too damn busy to give a shit about who I would care to sleep with. Not that I was sleeping with anyone. I could have, certainly. There weren't a lot of men to choose from. Plenty of boys, or bois if we're going to use that nonsense term. But, no one who I thought capable of being my knight in shining armor.

And, before you judge me as being hypocritical, yes, I would fall into that category. I was effeminate, certainly. I didn't want that in a person though. For my hypothetical boyfriend, I wanted someone who my father would approve of. Someone who would ride to my defense, and not be overly terrified of him.

* * *

><p>Things were better. I would go back to Lima for holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas to spend them with my father. I was particularly pleased to see some of the people of William McKinley high bagging groceries, pumping gas, and the like. Living well is the best revenge. The only reason I could live well is because I used the anger, the bitterness within me as a power source. It drove me forward when lesser people might have fallen by the wayside. It kept me up nights.<p>

The best, and worst part about it was that it was a renewable resource. I could be in a grocery store, or listening to the radio, or television, or even a movie and something would spark a memory of my Lima past. The way someone laughed, like they laughed when I was announced as the Prom Queen. Certain speech patterns could set my mind reeling back to Lima. I made it work damnit.

* * *

><p>Which brings us full circle to Paris. It was the opening day for the Paris fashion week and our contingent was there looking over the rooms, placement of lighting, quality of the lighting, as well as work on the articles of clothing that our models would be wearing.<p>

It was a somewhat hectic time at the venue and people were coming and going working on various things. I was busy situating one of the lights that would be on the stage when I overheard two of the stagehands discussing something in Arabic.

Having become fluent in both Spanish and French while in high school, I decided to take a year of Arabic at the New School as an elective. I wasn't entirely fluent, but I had a working knowledge of Arabic. Enough to know that the taller of the two was carrying a bomb packed in a duffel bag that he was going to hide under the stage that they were helping to construct for the event going on in a few hours. The bomb apparently would go off around 8pm.

I took a deep breath to calm myself. Internally, I was enraged. How dare these bastards! They were planning to kill people who had never done anything against them, innocent people who had nothing to do with the conflicts that were occurring around the world. Along with that realization, came the personal knowledge that they were trying to kill me.

It took everything I had in me not to go off the edge and confront them. If I did that, they'd run, and they might get caught, but that wasn't a sure thing. There weren't people around the set who seemed capable of stopping them. So, they could possibly get away and pick another target. I couldn't have that on my conscience.

* * *

><p>Going over to my valise, I pulled out my iPhone and took a picture of the two guys making sure to get their faces in the picture. Now what? Who should I go to? I could go to the Paris police, but I was uncertain how well they would take a complaint or report from an American citizen. Using my phone, I looked up the location of the American Embassy. I figured that they would be more inclined to take a claim from an American more seriously, and they probably had the proper contacts within the police to effectively act in time.<p>

Fortunately, the embassy was only 3 blocks away from our venue. I told one of the production assistants that I forgot my iPad back at the hotel, and that it had some information on it that we needed. I gave him my number just in case and told him that I would be back shortly. I hurried out, and made my way to the embassy. I walked up to the security guard and showed him my passport. He signaled me forward to the metal detector and I took out my wallet and keys and placed them inside a bowl and set my valise on the rollers so that it would go through the x ray machine. I walked through the detector and it beeped so I went over to the side where another security guard wanded me down. It was my belt and tie clip that had set off the detector.

There were a few people waiting in a line to meet with embassy personnel about various requests, so I figured that was the place to go. A few minutes passed in line, long enough for me to start tapping my foot in irritation, but not long enough for me to start audibly sighing before it was my turn. I went to the open window, looking at the name badge in the window.

I spoke to the man at the window, "Good afternoon Mark, my name is Kurt Hummel, I'm an American citizen, and I believe I may have stumbled upon a planned terrorist attack occurring tonight."

Mark replied, "Good afternoon to you as well Mr. Hummel. This type of situation doesn't normally cross my desk. It would probably be best for you to relay the information you have to one of our Bureau of Diplomatic Security agents."

Mark looked down at his directory and smiled to himself, bringing out the dimples in his cheeks and dialed one of the extensions listed there.

"Noah, this is Mark. I've got a person who has some information for you. Yeah, I know that you've told me to use your nickname, but it seems rather unprofessional. . . Really? OK. . . Puck, this is Mark, I've got a person who has some information for you. . .That better? I'll bring him up for you."

Mark put the receiver down, and shrugged his shoulders, "Sorry about that Mr. Hummel, he's a bit insistent on going by his nickname."

"You can call me Kurt, Mr. Hummel's my father."

"Alright, Kurt it is. I'll take you up on the elevator to Puck's office."

"Lead the way."

Mark walked out from his window area to the lobby and we walked towards the elevator. He swiped his keycard through the reader to summon the elevator. It came down, we boarded, and Mark pressed the button for the third floor.

"If you haven't already figured it out, Puck's rather informal. So, no need to stand on ceremony. He'll see you out when you're done."

"Thanks Mark."

"You're welcome, Kurt."

We walked down the hallway to a door with a nameplate identifying the office as Diplomatic Security. Mark knocked.

"Come in Mark."

Mark opened the door, and we both walked in.

"Puck, this is Kurt Hummel, he has some information for you. I'm going back to my area now, you can see him out. Remember to get me that $50 before you leave Paris. Told you LeBron James didn't know that basketball has four quarters."

* * *

><p>I was busy checking out the eye candy on display to even pay attention to what Mark was saying. Puck's sleeves on his dress shirt were rolled up, displaying some very impressive arms that I'd kill to have wrapped around me. The top button of his shirt was unbuttoned, letting me look at the column of his neck. He even had a mohawk! Oh my GaGa.<p>

I fidgeted with my tie, and unbuttoned the top button on my own dress shirt to allow myself some circulation. I hadn't even seen his face yet. _Please be a butterface._

Puck looked up at both of us.

"Well, Mark, we both know that the oddsmakers in Vegas got a ton of bets on the Heat to win, so of course they fixed it. So really, I probably shouldn't pay you since the Mavericks clearly didn't win the game, Vegas had the Heat lose. I, however, don't want you to have a bad impression of me, so I'll pay you, this time. According to the currency converter on Google, 35 euros is 50.1 dollars. Meaning you owe me a dime, you rat bastard."

His eyes were a deep brown that sparkled with amusement. No, he wasn't a butterface at all.

Puck fished out some Euros from his wallet and handed them over to Mark. Mark counted the money, probably to verify that it was all there.

"I'll write you a postdated check for the dime, Puck." He called out as he left the office.

The door clicked shut behind us.

"Well, it looks like security is a little lax around here. They shouldn't be letting a person with a concealed weapon get through. Doesn't look like a peashooter either. Normally I'd be flattered, but time's a wasting, so maybe later?"

Oh my.


	3. The Game's Afoot

10

A/N: Well, we're at Chapter 3. I still don't own Glee, but I can watch it on Hulu. For that matter, I can watch season 1 on Netflix. Acafellas is worth watching on repeat for shirtless sweaty Puck. Lord. Anyway, this chapter will earn the M rating, though not for smut. Minor character death, torture. Fairly graphic. The views of the characters are not representative of those of the author.

Chapter 3: The Game's Afoot

PuckPOV

I had the advantage on Kurt Hummel at the moment, in that I was seated behind a desk. He couldn't see me tenting the front of my pants. My other advantage over him was a relatively dark complexion, whereas he had skin like a porcelain doll. Naturally, when I told him about his big problem he turned a delightful shade of rose.

My line of work didn't leave me a lot of time for relationships and the like. It would be problematic to have a wife and kids, or a partner worrying about where you were, whether or not you'd be coming back home, dreading that phone call telling them that you'd been killed, wounded or captured. So for the time being my love life was a series of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels.

That wasn't a problem for me. It wasn't a problem for them either, I think. Mutual expectations aligning and all that jazz. Men, and women, of course.

My sexuality was rather fluid. It came from having a worldview where I could see God in every person I was involved with. I had been raised a fairly non-observant Jew, so I tended towards a more spiritual view of God, rather than a religious one.

I actually did have a daughter. When I was younger and slightly less intelligent than I am now, I fooled around with a girl in high school. She was on the pill, but had been taking antibiotics for strep, and that interacted with the pill and she got pregnant. She didn't want anything to do with me because I was, and always would be a Lincoln loser. She had the baby, I got to see her one time before she gave her up for adoption.

* * *

><p>The Lincoln Loser straightened up, got decent enough grades and a good enough ACT score to get some money to go to the University of Nebraska at Lincoln. Got a degree in Political Science with a minor in History then went to Law School at the same, and got my JD. On a lark, I applied to the CIA as a field agent, and they called me. My position at the State Department was what we would call a cover. I could be in a foreign country and operate out of our offices here without too much risk of being exposed.<p>

Here I was, a person who 10 years ago, couldn't be considered a good candidate for taking responsibility for one life, being trusted to potentially guard thousands of them. Not too shabby for a Lincoln loser.

* * *

><p>Kurt had managed to get control of himself, and I gestured for him to have a seat. He sat down.<p>

"So, Kurt, what do you have for me?"

"Well, Puck, I'm a junior designer for Marc Jacobs and we're here for the opening of Paris Fashion Week. While the crew and I were working on getting the stage and lighting set up I overhead a couple of the stagehands speaking in Arabic. What they were discussing was that they had a bomb in a duffel bag that they needed to plant. I took a picture of them with my iPhone and I know where they set the bag at."

"Alright. Mind if I see your iPhone, actually, just log into your email and send the picture to " I figured that it would be a bit early to give him my CIA email.

A moment later, the picture came through in an email file. I opened it up, and imported the image into the terror suspect database that was on my computer. It used facial recognition software to id people.

"So, where'd you learn to speak Arabic, Kurt?"

"I had learned Spanish and French in high school, and I thought it might be a useful language to learn, so I took a year of it when I went to college."

"Where was that at?"

"I went to the New School in New York. Where'd you go to college at?"

"Good school, from what I've heard. I went to the University of Nebraska at Lincoln for my undergrad, and my JD. Though I didn't learn Arabic until I started here, figured it'd go along with my Hebrew."

"You don't look like the lawyering type."

"Stereotyping based on appearance?"

"Acknowledged. I'm sorry."

"Actually, I'm not a lawyer, as I haven't taken the bar. I just have the degree."

* * *

><p>The program pinged, bringing up matches for both of the men pictured.<p>

"I'll be damned. What's he doing here? Mahktif, I could understand, but Basalov I don't."

"I have no clue what you're talking about."

"Khalid Mahktif is your average run of the mill Islamist terrorist. Has some connections to Hezbollah, and from there probably has some contacts inside Iran, since they support Hezbollah. Dzhokar Basalov , on the other hand, is a Chechen. Chechnya is an area that has had some problems with staying a part of Russia. Their resistance movement is believed to have some tentative connection to Al-Qaeda. Just wondering what would bring them here to target this particular venue."

"Well, you could arrest them and find that out."

"Yeah, Kurt, we could do that. There are a couple of problems with that. The first is that if we bring the Paris police in on this, we probably won't get access to them. Thus, our ability to get information from them would be limited."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to call the head of our division and see what they think."

"Time's a wasting."

* * *

><p>It would be about 8:30 at the CIA HQ in Langley. Early, but Assistant Director Emma Pillsbury would already have been there for two hours, reading briefings and preparing the daily intelligence briefing for the director, and the President. I emailed her the attachment that I had received off Kurt's iPhone, and I dialed the number for her office.<p>

"Pillsbury."

"This is Noah Puckerman out of Paris. I've emailed you a file showing a couple of known terrorists that are going to be staging an attack here tonight. Should we bring the Paris police in on this?"

"Absolutely not. We bring them in, we won't get them back. Mordechai's there isn't he?"

"Mordechai?"

"He's probably going by Mark."

"Oh?"

"So, he is there. He's not under us, but he'll work with you on this. Just tell him that Emma requested him."

"I have something else that I want to run by you, but I can do that after this is taken care of."

"If it can wait, it should."

"Alright, I'll talk to you later."

"Happy hunting."

The line went dead. I figured that she'd respond the way she did. It was a chance to get potential intelligence, which was useful. It could establish connections, and possibly uncover current sponsors of terrorists that had hitherto escaped our detection.

* * *

><p>"Kurt, we're going to take them into custody. You'll take us over to the venue and show us where the suspects are at, and we'll take them in. Hopefully we can do that without disruption."<p>

"You're not going to get the police involved?"

"They would compromise our ability to get information from the suspects."

"You mean torture?"

"In a word: yes."

"And you're alright with that?"

"No. I'm also not alright with there being other explosive devices that they may have hidden in the venue, or car bombs outside of the venue exploding and killing innocent people. I'm not alright with their sponsors being able to do this shit indiscriminately either."

Kurt pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Jesus. I hadn't thought about there being other bombs."

"Yeah, it's entirely possible. There aren't any good choices here, I know that. You know that too. For that matter, I'm not alright with a philosophical system who's underpinnings condemn me to death for being Jewish and having relations with men, but that's a personal reason."

"Do you have anything to drink? I need something to wash the taste out of my mouth."

I opened up my bottom drawer and pulled out a flask of whiskey. "Purely medicinal."

He took a fairly impressive knock off the flask and swallowed. Kurt didn't cough, and handed the flask back to me. I finished it off, and coughed a little.

"You must do this often, you didn't cough."

"Buy me a drink after this is done, and I'll tell you about it."

"Sure thing."

* * *

><p>We exchanged numbers, and left my office. I swiped my key card to activate the elevator, and we went down to the lobby. I went over to Mark's window, and talked in a quiet voice.<p>

"Emma Pillsbury told me about you, and said you'd be able to work with me to apprehend the suspects that Kurt told me about."

"Yeah, we go way back."

"How far?"

"A gentleman never tells. Also, that would be dating her. We're old enough to be your parents is as specific as I think I could be."

"Scared of her?"

"Obviously."

"You in?"

"Of course."

"Kurt, wait here for a moment, we're going to go get some equipment."

"Sure."

* * *

><p>We went back to the elevator, and took it down to the basement. I swiped my keycard through a reader on a metal door and walked inside a weapons locker. I grabbed two tasers, two pairs of cuffs, and exited the room, shutting the door behind me. I handed one of each to Mordechai, and we went back upstairs.<p>

"So, when did Mr. Hummel turn into Kurt?"

"Is that any of your business?"

"It is if it interferes with your ability to do the job."

"It won't."

We exited out into the lobby where Kurt was waiting.

"Kurt, we'll take a car there. I know it's only a few blocks, but it's for the best."

"Gotta keep those Saudis flush with oil money so they can keep sponsoring terrorism to keep you in business right?"

"Hahaha! I like him Puck."

"Me too, Mark, me too."

We left the building and went to the parking lot and got into an SUV. We drove over there, and dropped Kurt off front.

"We'll pull around the back entrance and come in through there. Do you think you can get them to come back there?"

"Yeah, I'll pick up the bag that they set down and carry it back there. That should get them to follow me."

"Alright, be careful with handling it, obviously. Don't jostle the bag, or run with it."

"Thanks."

* * *

><p>Kurt stepped out of the SUV and walked inside.<p>

I took the SUV around back, and parked it. We got out and Mark broke the lock on the backdoor and we walked in.

We walked toward the front where there was the noise of people getting things set up for the opening of the show tonight. There was a room off to the side of one of the doors leading out to the main area. I opened the door, and it was a large supply closet. I texted Kurt, indicating that we were in the supply closet near the right side of the stage. He replied that he was "omw".

Kurt came in a couple of minutes later. He set the bag down on a shelf. As he was doing that, the door opened, and our suspects entered. They were unpleasantly surprised to see us there, to say the least. We aimed our tasers at them, and fired, the prongs striking both of them. We cuffed them, and with a quick blow to the back of the head, we knocked both of them out.

I walked over to the bag and opened it up. Looking inside, I saw a fairly simple picric acid bomb. How a picric acid bomb works is there's the acid on one side of the container, separated by a copper disk of varying width. On the other side, there's a compound that reacts with the acid to create a fire. The acid eats through the copper seal at a constant rate to create the effect of a timed fire bomb. Tossing it into the river would solve the problem. However, that did confirm that they probably had another bomb planted outside the venue.

I explained all of this to Kurt, who took it rather stoically. I gave him my card, insisting that he call me if he still wanted to get that drink.

"I'll think about it. I'm in town for a few days though, so we'll see."

* * *

><p>We managed to get out back without any disruption, and placed our suspects in the back. We drove by the river and Mordechai tossed the firebomb in there. I drove us to the service entrance of the embassy, where I used my card to access the elevator going to the basement. From there, we went through a door leading down another flight of stairs into a subbasement.<p>

After the end of World War II, we rebuilt our embassy in Paris. We felt it necessary to prepare a place that could theoretically serve as a command hub for operations were a war to break out in Europe. Our front lines were in Germany, but if a first strike were to occur, command centers there would probably be targeted, or go offline. So, our embassy here became a hub. It also became a center for our spying and counterintelligence operations. One of the rooms that it had was a soundproofed interrogation room. That's where we went.

"This place takes me back."

"When were you here?"

"During the Cold War."

"You don't look that old."

"Clean living, and my hair comes from a bottle."

The room was austere, and sterile. That image was only reinforced by the tile floors and fluorescent lighting that crackled to life as I flipped the switches on the wall. A metal chair was bolted to the floor, and it had straps that dangled from it like tongues from serpent. The room also had a storage locker, sink, and table that was also bolted into the floor.

"Mordechai, how do you think we should proceed?"

"I'll strap Basalov into the chair, and you can cuff Mahktif to one of the table legs. Tape his eyelids open too, he needs to be able to see what we'll be doing. Basalov probably won't talk, but Mahktif probably will to avoid what we're going to have to do."

"Shouldn't we do it the other way then?"

"We want Mahktif to be able to talk clearly."

He said all of this while fishing through the storage locker like a kid in a candy store. He pulled out some old school dental equipment.

"Wonder if this still works?" Mordechai said as he turned on a dental drill. As it whirred to life, he let out a deep sigh. "Yessss."

I wondered, as I look over at him, whether I would be like him in 5 or 10 years. The thought was disturbing. I clenched my jaw to keep the bile down that threatened to erupt from my jaw. We hadn't even started the interrogation process yet and I was going to be sick.

"Puck, you should fill that bucket up with cold water. We need to wake them up."

I grabbed the bucket from him and went over to the sink. I cupped my hands over the faucet and drank a little bit of water before filling the bucket up. I went back over, and dumped it on Mahktif to wake him up first. I refilled the bucket and gave Basalov the same treatment.

They both slowly came around. I made sure they were aware of their surroundings before warning them.

"We found the bomb that you two hid in the Fashion Venue. We know it's a firebomb, and we know that there's another bomb. So, you can tell us where it is the easy way, or we'll find out the hard way. . . . Nothing huh? Alright."

The sound of glass shattering on the floor got my attention. I saw Mordechai picking up a large shard of the glass, and he walked over.

"Hold his jaw."

I went behind the chair and grabbed Basalov's jaw in my hands. He shook his head back and forth and strained against my grip. I held firm as Mordechai shoved the shard in his mouth. He got out a pair of gloves and put them on. He cocked his fist and delivered a left hook to Basalov. His head knocked back, hitting the chair. The glass also broke inside his mouth, puncturing his cheeks and gums. Blood flowed out between his lips and down his chin, staining my hands in the process. My mind recoiled, but I held firm. Mordechai swung with his right, making contact and causing some more damage to his mouth.

Mordechai curled his fingers, testing his range of motion. I gathered that he was probably dealing with early stage arthritis, based on that reaction. I let go of Basalov's jaw.

"Ready to talk yet? There's plenty of glass on the floor here."

Basalov gurgled, and spat a mixture of blood, saliva, and some glass onto my shoes. "Fuck you." He rasped.

Mordechai picked up another shard of glass off the floor and we repeated the process. This time, Mordechai used his right hand first, to get some glass to damage the other side of his face, and then followed up with his left.

"You ready yet?"

"Never!"

"I'm going to get the drill ready."

I released his jaw, and went to fill the bucket partially up again. I went back over, grabbing his jaw, and pouring water in. He tried to spit, but I forced him to swallow taking some of the glass into his body. He groaned as it began to damage the tissues in his throat. I poured more water in, but this time let him spit some of it out.

Mordechai came over, with the drill whirring in his hand.

"You'll need to hold his jaw open again."

As the drill descended, Mahktif snapped under the pressure of seeing Basalov being tortured. "I'll talk!" he hoarsely yelled.

Mordechai turned the drill off. Basalov renewed his struggle against me, trying to say something through his ruined mouth. My grip held firm, as Mordechai walked over to where Mahktif was.

"Start talking."

"There's a white Peugeot parked out front of the venue. The license plate is RD745L. The bomb is inside the trunk. Detach the green wires and the bomb will be deactivated."

"Who sent you?"

"I was hired by a man working for the Karofsky association in Moscow."

"Why would Karofsky be targeting a fashion show in Paris?"

"How do you think I should know?"

"Alright. Let's go Mordechai."

"Not so fast. We have to take care of the situation down here."

"What do you mean?"

"We can't turn them over, and it'd be rather difficult to get them out of the country. I don't think I need to draw you a map here."

"Goddamnit."

"How did you think this was going to end? Us turning them over, looking like victims straight from the interrogation room? You're real fucking naïve if you think that's gonna work out."

* * *

><p>I let go of Basalov's jaw. His wordless croaks and gurgles said that he knew that this was the end result too, which was why he hadn't talked. Mordechai knew as well. Mahktif and I were both clueless. Luckily, my cluelessness wasn't going to get me killed. I glanced over at Makhtif, who's eyes were closed and his head was bowed. He was whispering his absolution to his God.<p>

"Got a gun handy, Mordechai?"

He pulled up his right pant leg, revealing an ankle holster which held a glock 27 in it. He pulled it out and handed it to me.

"Thought you'd never ask."

Basalov spit at me one last time as I aimed down the sight and pulled the trigger. The bullet punched into his forehead, exiting and embedding itself into the tile behind us. I pivoted, and let Mahktif finish his prayer before putting a bullet in his temple. Mordechai fished through their pockets, finding the keys to the Peugeot that the bomb was planted in.

"I'll go take care of this. You can call a cleaner to take of those." He said, gesturing toward their bodies.

I wordlessly handed him his gun, and went over to the sink to wash my hands. I used some paper towels to clean off the stuff on my shoes as well.

We walked out of the room, and went back upstairs.

"You did good tonight Puck."

"I wouldn't call what we did 'good'."

"The end result is."

"In this instance."

* * *

><p>He walked out of the embassy building. I pulled out my phone and called Pillsbury.<p>

"How's Mordechai doing?"

"He's good. Enjoys his work a little much. Situation's taken care of, but we need a cleaner."

"I'll call someone in Paris who we can trust."

"Will they contact me, or do they have clearance to get inside the embassy?"

"They'll have clearance. You can go. Take the day off tomorrow if you need to."

"Thanks."

The line went dead. I went to my car, and got inside. I rested my head against the steering wheel for a moment, before I put the key in the ignition and turned it over. I exhaled a deep breath and drove to the apartment that the agency was renting out for me while on assignment here.

I took off my clothes when I got safely inside the apartment. Going into the bathroom, I turned on the water for the shower. I needed to get myself clean. I scrubbed myself with soap and shampoo, letting the hot water cascade down my form. I felt my muscles begin to relax under the ministrations of the water, and I felt a little cleaner. Getting out of the shower, I toweled off, and put some boxers and an undershirt on.

I turned on the TV, prepared to zone out to some mindless programming. My apartment was well stocked with liquor, so I raided the cabinet, making a scotch and soda. I drained it off, and made another. Taking my time with this one, I savored the burn of the scotch as it went down. I got my phone and texted Kurt, signifying that I wasn't going to be able to meet him tonight, and I might be free later in the week. He texted back that they were going to be busy with a party after the opening night show, and to get a hold of him later in the week, if I was so inclined.

I let myself drift off into a nap with the TV playing softly in the background.


	4. Introductions and Investigations

7

A/N: Sorry for the delay. There's been a bit of a heat wave here, and I can't focus when that happens. Also, I'm really quite depressed that Chord Overstreet aka Sam Evans aka Trouty Mouth is either being cut, or having his role reduced. Here's hoping that's not the case, and that he'll have at least the same amount of screen time this season as last. Going to slow the action down a bit for this chapter. Still don't own Glee. Feel free to let me know what you're thinking.

Code Name Porcelain

Chapter 4: Introductions and Investigations

KurtPOV

My phone beeped with the tone indicating an incoming text. It was Puck, indicating that he wouldn't be able to meet up with me tonight, but that the situation had been addressed. I sent a text back indicating that I was ok with that, that the opening night of Paris Fashion Week had a party that went along with it, and that I would be alright seeing him later in the week.

It would have been nice to have met up with Puck after the show. It would have been a good excuse to avoid attending a party with rival designers, as well as the socialites and social climbers that would be there. Conversation tended to stop if I revealed things like where I was from, what my father did for a living, and the like. At the same time, these people were our customers. There would be further distance between us if they knew that I had helped orchestrate the capture and probable torture of two known terrorists who desired to kill as many people here as possible. I could picture the various stuffed shirts condemning my American Cowboy mentality of handing over suspects to US government agents operating in a foreign country. The events of earlier this afternoon had only widened the gulf between me, and the people I worked and interacted with.

On the other hand, I also realized the necessity of putting some distance between Puck and myself considering the separate nature of our worlds. It would be better to meet him as a person, outside of his role as a government agent.

Distance was nothing new for me. I had been distancing myself from the rest of the world writ large for ages.

Even though distancing myself from people was nothing new, I thought it odd that I felt the need to place more distance between Puck and myself. We should have been distant already, given our roles. Yet we didn't seem to be. There was a certain Je ne sais quoi between us.

* * *

><p>8pm came and passed. The show was officially a go. I took careful notes gauging audience reaction, to determine what would sell, or not. I cataloged reactions that people had to the various outfits that the models were displaying. I smiled, both internally and externally when my model, Brittany Pierce came out. Flashbulbs popped as she struck a pose.<p>

The collection that finished off the evening was Vivienne Westwood's. It would be a real treat for the "what not to wear" columns of various magazines. An odd statement to make about a world famous fashion designer, I know. To my mind there were several different underlying explanations to what her brand was doing. The first, was that she was deliberately being gauche with the majority of her fashion statements, which made the more conservative things that she did stand out and would make people more likely to purchase those items. The second theory was that she was appropriating punk culture and commercializing it. Which was kind of nauseating in it's blatancy, but there you go. The third theory was that people might actually want to wear the stuff. Finally, it was entirely possible that in a culture where no publicity is bad publicity, she was taking the Kardashian route to keeping her brand popular.

The show drew to a close to applause from the assembled audience. Closing my notebook, I placed it in my satchel along with the list of attendees and models. I figured that information might be of some use to Mr. Puckerman in his investigation. The fact that it also gave me a reason to contact him didn't factor into my mind at all.

The series of rooms off to the left of the stage all had their retractable walls brought in, so that an open area was created for people to mingle. The bar area dominated the middle, and that's where I eagerly went.

Brittany intercepted me on my way there.

She was holding two glasses, "Kurtie, I already got you a red."

I pecked her on the cheek, "I see you got a white, sweet, just like you."

"Where were you at earlier this afternoon? I missed my favorite dolphin."

"I had to save the world you know, nothing major. Met a total hottie along the way." I said in a droll tone.

"Was he a fellow dolphin?"

"I dunno. More of an equal opportunity sex shark you know."

"Oooh. Maybe you could introduce me?"

"Maybe."

"Meaning no."

"Meaning if I think he's not my type and is yours, then yes."

We air kissed, and she went off to mingle. She was far better at that than I was. She was good with people, which was more than I could say about myself. I was more the small group type of person, whereas Brittany could charm a room.

* * *

><p>I milled around for a bit, flitting around the room. I didn't stay in one place too long, I was more than content to observe the various goings on of the room. I doubted I would overhear another plot tonight, but you never knew. A couple of investor types were opining on the state of politics in the United States, so I decided to inject myself into the conversation.<p>

"Seems to me that the Republicans don't have a shot in 2012 against President Obama. Their field is weak, and they can't raise enough money." A gentleman with salt and pepper hair stated.

"The only question to my mind is whether or not he'll replace Vice President Biden with someone who he thinks is presidential material for 2016." An older woman responded.

"I think he's beatable." I responded.

"How so?" The gentleman inquired.

"Well, the economic indicators in the States are still poor, he's failed to act on a number of issues that are important to his base of supporters, and he's been lukewarm at best toward GLBT issues, meaning that he might have trouble with the GayTM."

"GayTM?" The older woman asked with a puzzled expression.

"Portmanteau of Gay and ATM. The Democratic party treats GLBT people as a cash machine in my opinion. We're good enough for $35,000 dinners with the President, but we're not good enough for equal rights. At least until it's a safe enough issue for him."

"Who else are they going to support though?" She pressed me.

"They should withhold their support."

"Then you'd have a Republican in the White House." The gent said.

"So?"

"So? They could undo things like the repeal of Don't Ask Don't Tell." The lady replied testily.

I kept my cool. "Unlikely. They haven't been able to undo Roe v. Wade, and that's their signature issue. It'd be the same with that."

A smooth voice behind me interjected into the conversation. "I hope you don't mind if I step in?" He said.

Our group unconsciously moved slightly apart to make way for the newcomer. I turned my head to take a look at him. He had beautiful glossy black hair, dark blue eyes, and a dark complexion. Savile row by the appearance of his suit. Obviously good taste in mens wear. Wealthy enough to afford a suit tailored to his specifications in London nonetheless. Good at projecting confidence too.

Before I could speak, the lady in our trio replied, quite happily, "Oh, we don't mind at all. . .Mr.?"

"Dalton. Blaine Dalton. You have me at an advantage Ms.?"

"Lilian Adler." She said. Blaine kissed her hand like a courtier out of old.

The gentleman cut in, "You wouldn't be Alan's son would you?"

"You know my father?" Blaine replied.

"It's been awhile since I've seen him. I'm Charles Howell, by the way." He said extending his hand, which Blaine took.

"When I go back to London, I'll give my father your regards." He turned toward me, his eyes capturing my own. "Now, I'm afraid we're all at your mercy, Mr.. . ?"

"O-oh, I-I'm, Kurt. . .Kurt Hummel."

Blaine extended his hand toward mine, capturing it. His handshake was firm. He maintained his grip while his thumb lazily rubbed my pulse point. Well. . . that clued me in on his intentions as far as I was concerned. A little too blatant for my taste, especially with other people around.

"I daresay, Charles, we should probably leave these two alone." Lilian said, as they both went away.

Blaine finally released my hand. "Would you like to go somewhere more quiet?"

I internally waged war with myself regarding this decision. Though I thought him perfectly harmless, I didn't want to be at the mercy of a stranger in a city where I was a foreigner. "I think it's best that we just stay here. I'll be transporting some of our people back to the hotel where we are staying at."

I quickly added, in an attempt to be civil, "We could try to find an empty table, or quiet space to chat if you wanted."

Blaine scanned the room, finally spotting a small table off to the side that was empty. He pointed at it, and asked if it was ok. I replied in the affirmative, and we made our way over there.

"So, Blaine, what do you do?"

He handed me his card, by way of explanation. It read, Dalton Organization, with his name and the title of Investments Manager beneath it. His phone number and email were also thoughtfully provided, on the chance that I wanted to call him. Family organization, he was about my age, where most people in the business of financial investments would be interns or day traders, he was presumably managing full accounts. Or, maybe it was a fancy title with no responsibility.

"Are you here for networking purposes? If so, I'm afraid I probably won't be able to help you very much." I stated.

"Partially. We have investments here in some labels. Vivienne Westwood, for instance." Blaine clarified.

I laughed more than would be considered polite. "Your company will be pleased. If she profits, you profit, and if she generates losses, you can write it off on your bottom line."

"I suppose that is an advantage." Blaine said drily. I didn't think he appreciated the quip about Ms. Westwood's label. Oh well.

"So, did you have an opinion on the conversation that Ms. Adler, Mr. Howell, and myself were engaged in earlier?" I inquired, curious to know what drew him over to us.

"I thought your interpretation of politics in the States was interesting. Specifically, that President Obama is beatable next year, and that he should be more open in supporting rights for members of the gay community. It seems to me that if the President had come out in favor of gay marriage in New York, for instance, no Republicans would have supported it. They wouldn't want to be seen taking orders from the President that their party has made it a mission to destroy."

"At the same time though, it would be nice to see him take a stand in favor of it." I agreed

"I'm not denying that at all. I just don't think he will until it's expedient for him to do so."

"Precisely. People voted for change and got more of the same."

Our conversation ebbed and flowed around various subjects throughout the evening. We were both fans of the Impressionist school, as well as Kandinsky. I thought that portraits were tacky, he thought that they preserved history.

* * *

><p>Blaine liked to hear himself talk. Normally that would be a bad thing, especially if one were a boor. He wasn't though. He could at least be interesting in the subjects that we talked about. He had an opinion on everything, or so it seemed. Eventually, things began to die down at the venue as people began to leave.<p>

Looking down at my watch, I saw that it was nearing midnight. Handing him my card, I indicated that it was time for me to head out, as we had to set up for the second day early in the morning.

I signaled to Brittany that we had to go and she disengaged from the conversation that she was involved in. As we were leaving, a voice shouted my name. I turned, and saw Blaine striding over with my satchel. I must have been more tired than I realized to have almost forgotten it.

"You forgot your bag, Kurt." Blaine said, handing it over to me.

"Thank you Blaine. I'll call you tomorrow if I'm free, or maybe I'll see you here again?" I said.

"That sounds great! I'm here through Wednesday." he replied.

Brittany and I left and made the drive back to the hotel we were staying at.

"Who was he?" she asked.

"Investment manager for a firm in London. Liked to hear himself talk. Could hold his own in an argument.

"Sounds like it might be lurrve." Brittany said a little sarcastically.

"Not likely. The firm belongs to his dad. I'm not necessarily opposed to that, mind, but it just seems a little tacky. He also seemed pedagogical with his knowledge. Like he knew things, but didn't experience them. You know?"

"Sort of. Like Will Hunting in Good Will Hunting?"

"Exactly. Meet anyone interesting?"

"Unfortunately, no. No one that could hold a candle to Lord Tubbington."

I grinned at her. "If a quarter of the things you've claimed that cat had done are true, it'd be difficult for anyone, even ME to hold a candle to him."

"Ok, Lord Tubbington didn't walk on the moon. His mother did though." she replied.

"You make me smile you know that?"

"You should smile more Kurtie. You shouldn't be sad." Brittany said simply.

It was impossible to disagree with her. "There's not much to smile about. Hopefully that will change soon though."

"That hottie you met while saving the world?"

"I was being sarcastic about that."

"No you weren't. You were being dry about it. Maybe you didn't save the world, but you didn't go back to the hotel this afternoon did you?"

"I'll tell you about it in the room ok?"

"Fair enough."

I parked the SUV and we went into the hotel. I allowed us the luxury of using the elevator, as we took it to the 4th floor. We went into our room, and set our bags down. We both changed into our sleepwear and I made a gin and tonic.

I took a healthy drink and began to tell her what happened.

"So, this afternoon, before the show started, I overheard a couple of the hired hands discussing in Arabic that they had a bomb and where to plant it. They settled on planting it under the stage that was being built for the show tonight. I didn't know what to do about the situation, so I went to the embassy where they put me in contact with a security specialist there. He's the hottie. Dark hooded eyes, serious guns, and a mohawk! Him and another person came back here with me and took the two into custody and got rid of the bomb."

"Maybe you can hold a candle to Lord Tubbington. Does the hottie have a name?"

Trust her to focus on what was important, "Noah Puckerman, but he goes by Puck."

"Any interest from him?"

"YES!" I squealed excitedly.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Well, I got the list of event attendees, I figured that might help figure out who they were targeting, if they were targeting anyone specific."

"Hmmm. It also gives you an excuse to see him again."

"That's true. I think I'm going to try to get some sleep though." I said, settling into the king size bed that the room boasted.

The gin and tonic had hit me over the head, and I was out before I could count to 10.


End file.
